Some Mystery Lost and Died Alone
by sissannis
Summary: He knows nothing of him. But he knows everything of him. For Synoir.


* * *

Sirius stopped writing, snapping his quill into two in frustration. He cursed under his breath, trying his hardest to ignore the prickling sensation of being watched, _again_.

He swirled his head toward the source. He was right. It was the third time of the day he saw him watching him. He tucked his most cherished journal away carefully as it could have been one last gift from his brother.

"Prongs, tell me you can see him now," Sirius half-begged his friend, hands waving to the young man standing at the hall's door.

James looked up to where the boy was. His eyebrows knitted together before he faced him, rolling his eyes. "You tryna prank me one final time, aren't ya?" He took a bite of his dinner, mouth full as he continued, "Not gonna work, Pads! I figured you out! Because…" His hands cupped around his mouth and he whispered, "I've prepared one for you, too!"

"C'mon, mate. Just tell me you can see him," Sirius said exasperatedly, then he quickly added, "I thought we had a plan for graduation tomorrow! Leave with a bang kinda shit!"

"Yeah, but I've also prepared individual prank for each of you, Marauder's honour." James pushed his glasses up as they slid down his nose, "And I told you for the hundredth time—"

"Third," Remus corrected between bites. "And I'll kill you if I get pranked."

"—I see no sort of boy," James glanced to the door then to Remus, "And I love you more, Moony."

Sirius ignored the spectacle boy and turned to his two other friends for support.

"Don't look at me. I don't see shit," Remus said.

"Neither do I," Peter admitted regretfully.

That did it. Because there was no way Peter wouldn't take his side. He brought his head to the gigantic door again to make sure he was still there before he scanned around the hall, hoping that he would catch at least one girl drooled over the dark haired boy. Because as much as he hated to admit it, he was one good looking bloke. Snake or no snake.

His admittance itself started to creep him out.

"Well, third time's a charm." Sirius pushed himself up, cracking his neck side to side. "I'm gonna drag him here myself and we'll see if you fuckers continue with this half-arsed performance. As a self-proclaimed critic, let me tell you this: it sucks!"

It didn't suck. It was very convincing. Very real. And as Sirius walked briskly to the door, he started to get goosebumps. Because what if, _what if,_ they — everyone in the hall — really couldn't see him?

He didn't get to come up with an answer. Before he realized it, he was standing nose to nose with him.

Sirius once again scanned the hall for any drooling teenager. Still none. He cleared his throat, brushing the unease away as he looked down to the shorter boy.

"Come with me," he said.

The Slytherin raised an eyebrow. His lips pulled into a smirk as he spoke, eyes gazing over his shoulder to the Gryffindor's table. "Pardon me, Mr. Black. But I'm not interested in mingling with that merry band of yours."

Sirius turned to his friends. Their attention were still on him. Only him. Alone. He was about to call them when he felt a warm breath on his neck.

"Meet me on the seventh floor at midnight," the boy said. His voice was soft, a gentle wisp against his neck.

It sent chills running down his spine. "Seventh floor."

"Across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy," He added.

Sirius nodded his head. He was certain it wasn't a good idea to see this invisible boy later, but there was something captivating about his voice. The old, posh accent over his subtly demanding tone grasped at Sirius.

So he nodded again and confirmed, "Midnight."

The boy smiled. It was the most pretentious smile Sirius have ever seen.

"Alone."

* * *

Sirius studied Barnabas the Barmy's attempt to teach trolls ballet. He shook his head, erasing the absurd image off his brain. The night was quiet; except for the faint whispers of prefects walking down the stairs after their last round on the seventh floor.

He has been stood up, he surmised.

He chuckled humorlessly, turning his feet to the stairs. "What was I thinking?"

"Hopefully of me."

Sirius whirled his head back to the tapestry and dropped his jaw open. Where it was Barnabas and ballerina trolls, now it was a big, wooden door. The boy stood straight in front of it with hands behind him, chin tilted up.

"What the fuck? I swear it wasn't there before," he said, making his way toward the door.

"That's because it wasn't." He shrugged nonchalantly — elegantly.

"So, what? It just appeared out of thin air?"

"I know. Wonderful, isn't it? Magic, that is."

Sirius' heart skipped a beat. _Magic_ , he repeated in his head, mesmerized by the way the ghost boy's eye lit with wonder at his own statement. The torch's fire reflected in his eyes, making it seem like they were literally burning in curiosity, eagerness, desire.

 _Magic._

He could feel a bead of sweat trailed down his sideburn. "What's inside?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?"

The boy pushed the door open. Sirius winced as the creaking sound echoed the empty corridor, a reminder that they were alone past curfew. Filch could be anywhere.

As if he could read his mind, he spoke. "No one can find us once we're inside," the boy told him. "Come. It will only be the two of us."

Sirius halted. He turned to the stairs, evaluating his decision. The silence felt heavy around him, swallowing him whole. He turned his back toward the stairs, running his hand through his long hair as he made his decision.

This was his last night in Hogwarts. After the graduation ceremony, there was no certainty he could explore the castle again. He managed to convince himself.

"Fuck it," he muttered.

The boy smirked when he heard him, bowing his head down as his hand gestured welcomingly toward the room. "After you."

Sirius walked past him. There was nothing wrong with being curious. He would tell all about this room to the others later. It was just another night of exploration and mischief. He didn't expect to see Gryffindor's common room on the other side of the door, though. Not from a Slytherin.

The boy stood proudly in the middle of the room in his green robe. The picture was wrong, as though he tried to rob the Gryffindor in him in every inch of the way.

"I could ask for Slytherin's common room. But your comfort is my priority." His words were those of snakes — a string of silky lies.

Sirius nodded amicably. Despite it all, it did bring comfort to him amidst the strangeness of the night. He took a seat in the armchair nearest to him, watching as the boy roamed about — his fingertips trailed along the line of the fireplace, the couch, and the back of his seat. He rounded him smoothly, his robe billowing as he crouched down between his legs.

"Now that we're alone," he began, his fingers tapping on Sirius' lap, "Let's talk about the great, unavoidable war."

Sirius' mind churned from nothing to everything. He thought of the Order, of his friends, of his bike, of his brother.

His grin seemed misplaced on his handsome face. "I know your brother quite well, Mr. Black."

Sirius met his eyes, his breath hitched when he watched them blazing red. He blinked, trying to get a clearer sight, only to see them look perfectly normal. The familiar sound of woods' cracking from the fireplace was a solace he held desperately close.

"Young Regulus is simply doing everything to survive," he continued, his thumb circling on Sirius' inner thigh. "He doesn't have friends like yours, Mr. Black. He doesn't have the luxury of an older brother either."

The words pierced through his heart.

"He's afraid. Alone. With no one to turn to." He stood up, standing behind his seat.

His arms circled around him, enveloping him like a spider web, trapping and wrapping him until he felt suffocated by the warmth of his common room.

"I feel sorry for the young gentleman. He's a good boy, you see? Thrown right to the center of this chaotic war. He just wants to please his parents in place of his brother's failure." He whispered to his ear, "Whose fault do you think it was, Mr. Black? Whose role was it that our innocent Regulus had to fill on the eve of his sixteenth birthday?"

Sirius shut his eyes, tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. He knew the consequences of leaving the house would fall on his brother. But he saw how his mother has been dotting Regulus in ways she never did to him. He thought it wouldn't be as bad as what he had endured before.

His body shook as the despair washed over him. The lost of his brother's innocence, the fact that they would fight against each other in this war, the youth that he had robbed from him.

He felt a set of cold fingers lightly scratching his scalp. "Let it all out, Sirius. We are all too young for this fight. We are nothing but pawns: expendable and worthless piece on _his_ chess board."

He pushed him away, jumping off his seat. His breaths were short and heavy. Rage ran through his veins as he spat, "You know nothing about Dumbledore. He's a great wizard!"

The boy's dark eyes darkened. He looked malicious but just like his red eyes, it was replaced with his controlled, handsome face in a blink. He sat on the armchair, crossing his legs with his two hands laid upon the armrests. "Have you seen the latest model of Triumph motorbike?"

The sudden change of topic threw him off. "What?"

He conjured a magazine, pale fingers flipping through the pages and stopping at one to his liken. "Personally, I loved this one."

Sirius peered down to steal a glance of the image. It was the same one that he had been dreaming to own after he's graduated.

He uncrossed his legs, urging Sirus to sit on the floor between them. Sirius complied. His back rested against the chair as he snatched the magazine from the snake's hands. Thin arms cocooned him, humming as Sirius flipped through the pages, commenting lightly on each model.

He was doing nothing wrong. He was only talking about the war, about his brother, and about motorbike. It was a normal midnight conversation between two young men. He did nothing wrong.

So why? Why did it feel as if he has betrayed his friends? As if he has betrayed the Light?

* * *

"Another!" Sirius slammed his glass on the bar top.

"Sirius, honey. Don't you think you've had enough for the night?" Rosmeta asked as she topped his glass of Firewhiskey.

Sirius barked out a laugh. The sound attracted every patrons of the night to him. "Rosmeta, honey," he mocked, "It's a night of celebration!"

"Of what?" She asked, exposing her cleavage as she leaned forward.

Sirius twirled the glass in his hand, hypnotised by the small swirl of his drink. "My brother," he mumbled sadly.

The news had been late to arrive. His cousin, Andromeda, had written months ago to tell him, but the Order had kept the missive for fear that it was a threat. They knew not to put anything past a Black.

"To your brother," Rosmeta lifted her own glass.

"To my stupid brother." He downed his drink in one go. As he predicted, the journal was his last — parting — gift from Regulus. A memento, weighing a ton in his jacket pocket. A heaviness he never thought he would carry. A burden Death left him with.

Meanwhile, presently, the whisky left him with a fiery trail down his throat. Burning him inside.

The fire sent his mind wandering into the night. Was it real? Had it really happened? Sirius never did tell anyone about him — about that night. Never even told James — about his cold fingers on his scalp, about his wondrous dark eyes, about his smooth words. _A snake._

He caught a hint of movement from the corner of his eye. Shiver showered all over him as he felt it once again, just when he thought of him, the same sensation as he was being watched; by him.

His feet started to catch up to his brain, to his darkest thought. _Follow him, find him, follow him, find him._ The clanking sound of his motorbike key loud in his ears. The creaking sound of one of Rosmeta's inn door called for him. The cracking sound of firewood transported him back to the common room.

He blinked.

And he was there.

"I'm sorry about your brother, Sirius."

The door locked itself behind him.

"He was so young."

"Who are you?"

The grin still looked misplaced on his handsome face. "How are you faring? With the war? A little bird has told me something disconcerting." He passed the fireplace to the study, running his hand along the table's gilded edge. "How's young Potter doing?"

The effect was instantaneous. Sirius pointed his wand toward him. His fingers curling around it so sure that his knuckles turned white. "What do you know?"

"The only thing that matters: you." He locked his eyes with him, "They're an open target, Sirius. And as much I commend the brilliant idea of using Fidelius Charm, I condemn the moronic idea of using you as the secret-keeper."

His wand didn't waver despite of the sudden stop of his heart.

"Potter and Black. Black and Potter. Brothers in every way but blood. How foolish of you children to assume this puny deception could save you from Lord Voldemort?" He spat viciously, strutting toward him until his wand positioned right between his brows.

"Who the fuck are you?" Sirius stressed each of his word. His eyes lit manically, a reminder he did carry the insanity of a Black.

The Slytherin hissed. And hissed some more. And more. Until the journal hissed to him back.

"I believe you have something of mine," he said, his palm spread open to accept the book as it zoomed out from his pocket. The leather bound journal fit him perfectly.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle?" Sirius asked. The name has engraved permanently in his mind as it had on the leather bound.

"Do you not know who I am?"

Sirius tried to recall if he ever heard of the Riddle from his Pureblood schooling. "Riddle's not a wizards name."

"You don't know," Tom concluded, his voice was soft and sympathetic. "Oh, Sirius. You're fighting a war you know so little about.

"Please, change your plan. I want you to survive."

"We've only met once!"

"But I've known you for years." He set the journal on the table. "Everything you've written, all of your heart's content that you had poured into this, I know." He was suddenly in front of him, their noses brushing against each other. "I know you, Sirius Black. And I want you to survive this war. Please."

His wand hand fell limp to his side. A bubble of laughter ready on his throat at the ridiculousness of the turn of event. What was it with this boy, shaking his belief, his core, his sanity?

"I have changed the plan," he finally said. He could feel a gust of air hitting his chin. "I am not the secret-keeper anymore."

Tom staggered backward. "Stop talking."

But he didn't hear the warning as he continued talking over it. "It's Peter. It's bloody brilliant! No one would have thought of him. He's laid low the whole war. They would come after me. A perfect deflection to steer their attention away from Peter."

"Enough!"

Sirius brows furrowed in confusion. "You wanted me to change the plan. I got it! I'm not that stupid!"

"Sirius! That's enough!" Tom held his shoulders, his head tilted up for his forehead to meet Sirius'. "You fool. He now knows."

"What?"

Tom inhaled deeply, seemingly to savour his smell. Sirius mimed the action. It was both intimate and sorrowful. He could already feel the emptiness it would left him with after.

"Go, Sirius. Maybe no one has to die on this Halloween night. Save your friends."

* * *

As he fell back into the mysterious arch's curtain, he was reminded of the invisible boy that he had met only twice in his life.

He had learnt about his journal being one of Voldemort's horcruxes. He had listened to the story of Harry's bravery — fighting the embodiment of Voldemort's young soul, Tom. He had accepted the sin he'd committed unto James.

He had, after all, as good as killed them.

The torment never left him even after he closed his eyes into the eternal abyss.

* * *


End file.
